Upstairs
Though he was no stranger to pain, his hand shook as the sensation of the burn shot up his arm. The curls of smoke, almost elegant before his fingers tightened, slipped up between his knuckles until he finally had to put the small silver band onto the dresser again.
Sebastien's ring. He could not hold Sebastien's ring.
It would do him no functional good anymore, of course; he was already dead, a fact he accepted with his usual gruff practicality. The blood could feed from their own, from the 'dead', but it provided no nutrition and so his use to one of them would be negligent. His only worth would be in his connection to Sebastien, and even that would fade soon enough. Sebastien would mourn him, as he would eventually mourn them all, and move on.
Dead. I'm dead. Finally, he would have no excuse to keep me out of things because I'm dead, just like him.
The words were empty, though, said inside of his head to bolster himself. After all, Sebastien wasn't here. For the first time since he was seven, they were apart. Jack was alone.
Sebastien wasn't, thank goodness; Phoebe would take care of him, make sure he didn't get himself killed by his own stupid pride or worse, the fatigue of centuries. The more charitable part of him knew that Abby Irene would care for him as well, but he permitted the jealous and irritated portions to keep that voice of reason small. After all, it wasn't as if he was there to say anything over it to any of them.
And he could not even hold Sebastien's ring.
That wasn't even all! There were other things as well: a certain hunger for meat on top of an already-increased appetite, sounds more crisp, scents sharper to his nose, colors once vibrant now dull even as his night-vision improved in leaps and bounds. The shaking of half a dozen hands over the last few days had allowed him to see the change to his, the three center fingers now of the same length.
And the ring. The silver ring. The ring he could no longer wear.
It was madness, but so was a bar at the end of all things where the dead and the living could chatter over a plate of chicken and a glass of brandy. It was twisted, sick; a punishment for a sin he couldn't remember committing as there was nothing he'd ever done in his life that deserved this, as far as he thought. Even two days past, he could still feel his chest collapsing, smell the sour stink of the Beast on top of him. His throat--
His hand went to his throat and he sat on the bed, breathing. Simply breathing to breath, because his throat was in fact in one piece.
Of course. Of course.
Dead.
You're dead, Jack.
Dead and alone.
And doomed.
Sebastien's ring. He could not hold Sebastien's ring.
It would do him no functional good anymore, of course; he was already dead, a fact he accepted with his usual gruff practicality. The blood could feed from their own, from the 'dead', but it provided no nutrition and so his use to one of them would be negligent. His only worth would be in his connection to Sebastien, and even that would fade soon enough. Sebastien would mourn him, as he would eventually mourn them all, and move on.
Dead. I'm dead. Finally, he would have no excuse to keep me out of things because I'm dead, just like him.
The words were empty, though, said inside of his head to bolster himself. After all, Sebastien wasn't here. For the first time since he was seven, they were apart. Jack was alone.
Sebastien wasn't, thank goodness; Phoebe would take care of him, make sure he didn't get himself killed by his own stupid pride or worse, the fatigue of centuries. The more charitable part of him knew that Abby Irene would care for him as well, but he permitted the jealous and irritated portions to keep that voice of reason small. After all, it wasn't as if he was there to say anything over it to any of them.
And he could not even hold Sebastien's ring.
That wasn't even all! There were other things as well: a certain hunger for meat on top of an already-increased appetite, sounds more crisp, scents sharper to his nose, colors once vibrant now dull even as his night-vision improved in leaps and bounds. The shaking of half a dozen hands over the last few days had allowed him to see the change to his, the three center fingers now of the same length.
And the ring. The silver ring. The ring he could no longer wear.
It was madness, but so was a bar at the end of all things where the dead and the living could chatter over a plate of chicken and a glass of brandy. It was twisted, sick; a punishment for a sin he couldn't remember committing as there was nothing he'd ever done in his life that deserved this, as far as he thought. Even two days past, he could still feel his chest collapsing, smell the sour stink of the Beast on top of him. His throat--
His hand went to his throat and he sat on the bed, breathing. Simply breathing to breath, because his throat was in fact in one piece.
Of course. Of course.
Dead.
You're dead, Jack.
Dead and alone.
And doomed.